


Walkin' After Midnight

by Devereauxs_Disease



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Hanners is in rough shape, Hannibal and Will survive the fall, M/M, Sort Of, Will must look after Hannibal, With nothing but his wits and an old guitar, does music sooth the refined cannibal?, literally inspired by two pics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-08-11 16:56:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20156968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devereauxs_Disease/pseuds/Devereauxs_Disease
Summary: Hannibal and Will survive the fall, barely. As they recover from their injuries in a remote cabin, Hannibal takes a turn for the worse. Can Will keep Hannibal alive using nothing but sheer determination and an out-of-tune guitar?OrThe story where Will serenades Hannibal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all...this is my 100th fic. That number seems bonkers to me. It's a weird milestone, but it's mine and I cherish it. Thank you to everyone who's ever read my nonsense and given it some love. I can't tell you how much it means to me (it's inspired me to write 100 things, apparently). So basically...all these fics are your fault, that's what I'm saying. 
> 
> I would also like to shout out Ish because she has inspired SO MANY stories, and two pictures she sent me inspired the idea of Will with an old guitar plucking out a tune. 
> 
> Finally, Gwilbers is the best and saved you all from my mistakes, everyone should thank them.

Will didn’t notice the guitar when they first crashed into the cabin. He was too busy struggling under Hannibal’s weight and trying desperately not to tear the fresh stitches in either of them. Will wasn’t 100% sure how good the stitches were anyway, the doctor’s hands shook quite badly as Will pressed Francis’ gun to the base of his skull.

Hannibal had been out for most of it. He had stopped talking sometime after Will had loaded him in the car but before they crossed into North Carolina. Finding a small clinic in Kernsville hadn’t been hard, but dragging Hannibal inside and forcing the doctor to perform minor surgery in an exam room had zapped most of his energy. Will had snarled with every suture in his shoulder and cheek, refusing even a numbing agent in case the nervous man decided to chance it and call for help.

Hannibal never moved as the doctor worked. His features slack and breathing shallow while the doctor prodded at the bullet hole in his side and set his mangled leg. Will hadn’t allowed any numbing for Hannibal either, hoping the pain might wake up the man before him.

When the doctor was done, Will hit him hard with the butt of Francis’ gun, binding the man’s wrists and taping his mouth shut. With any luck, no one would find him until the next morning. He sped down country roads, a general destination in mind but no particular root planned. The stolen car bounced and groaned over potholes and uneven pavement.

Will kept a keen ear out for any sounds of distress coming from the man he had carefully laid across the backseat. The only noise he could discern was the soft wheeze Hannibal made every time he took a shallow breath.

“You know, if you wanted to die, you should have just let me drown us,” Will called to the man in the backseat. “Don’t think I’m letting you have the last fucking word. You dragged me onto the sand, now you’re gonna fucking live with the consequences.”

Will meant it. He hadn’t fought when he felt a hand twist around his collar. He’d gasped in air the moment he was pulled clear of the waves. He’d even helped paddle them the last few yards onto the sand when Hannibal’s arms fell limp in the water.

“You even try dying on me, and I’ll fucking revive you just so you feel it when I kill you myself.” Will snarled when the only reply was a soft wheeze, sounding weaker than before. He made a note to stop at the next town, find some blankets he could tuck around Hannibal’s clammy body. “You can’t die in a Dodge Neon, Hannibal. Think of what Chilton would say.”

They made it to Gatlinburg in two days.

Will had robbed a pharmacy in Charlotte, grabbing every bottle of disinfectant, alcohol, and water he could. He knew enough about pills in the locked back office to grab fistfuls of antibiotics and painkillers and stuff them into the car. He took off back for the coast, stopping in Florence to rob a Walmart, adding blankets and clean clothes to the pile of stolen goods in the trunk. Transferring it all to a stolen Jeep and dragging Hannibal into a new backseat left Will barely able to lift his right arm as he panted behind the wheel. Still, he cranked the engine and headed back toward Kernsville, hopefully this detour would throw Jack and anyone else who might be looking off their trail. Let ‘em wait at the border for a bit.

When his blinks grew longer and the Jeep began to swerve, Will pulled into deserted logging roads so he could doze for a few hours, always with that damn wheeze from the backseat keeping him from restful sleep.

He drove along the winding Tennessee roads, past the cabins filled with vacationers and WiFi, beyond the boonies where loose knit communities and one general store held civilization together. Will drove until the pavement stopped and the roads were cut by four-wheel drive vehicles, more tire tracks dug in dirt than anything else. He found the cabin about an hour after the blacktop had fallen way to gravel and dirt, tucked up an overgrown drive halfway up a mountain.

It was hazy with dust, Will left a trail on the hardwood as he dragged Hannibal to the mattress in the far corner of the room. It must have been a hunting cabin, abandoned for the season or entirely by the owner. There didn’t appear to be running water, but Will noted some fishing gear by the back door—hopefully there was a stream nearby.

Will spent the last of his strength arranging Hannibal on the mattress, careful to lay him on his left side, so the bullet wound wouldn’t strain. Will slid onto the lumpy mattress beside him, wincing as he wound his torn shoulder around Hannibal’s chest, pulling the doctor securely to Will’s front.

“Just gonna close my eyes a few minutes,” Will muttered into the base of Hannibal’s skull. “You better be breathing when I wake up.”

A wheeze was the only answer Hannibal gave.

* * *

Will woke with a surge of panic. He took a moment to blink at the bright sunlight flooding through the cabin’s windows and try to understand why his heart was racing. He listened to the birds chirping, the sound of branches tapping at the walls in the wind, everything around them seemed peaceful.

Peaceful.

Will grasped at Hannibal, still warm in his arms but definitely not wheezing. The stitches in Will’s shoulder pulled and blood began to seep through his shirt as he rolled Hannibal to his back and pressed an ear to his chest. The heartbeat was weak, but the rattle that had haunted Will for days had stopped.

Proper chest compressions were nearly impossible with his right arm in taters, but Will managed to pound on Hannibal’s chest with his left fist. Fastening his mouth to Hannibal’s, Will breathed stale air into the doctor until he heard the man below him choke and the wheeze resume.

“Nice try, asshole,” Will muttered, easing off of Hannibal’s chest. He stroked the filthy hair from Hannibal’s forehead and frowned at the warm flesh beneath his fingers.

* * *

Will didn’t like leaving Hannibal alone long. Every time he left the cabin, to head toward the hand dug outhouse in the back or to rush down to the stream with the fishing gear, Will could feel his heartbeat hasten. What if Hannibal stopped breathing? What if he woke for a second, called out for Will and got no response? What if Hannibal left the world without Will by his side? Would he still find Will in the next life? Or would Will have to search for him?

Always a pretty good fisherman, even one-handed, Will managed to catch at least a fish or two each day to keep them going. In the evening, he’d haul buckets of water from the stream—making trips until he filled up the steel tub in the cabin. Wiping himself and Hannibal down with cold stream water every night.

Hannibal still wasn’t much company. Will managed to keep him clean, rigging a bedpan from an ancient plastic container he found near the wood-burning stove. Feeding him was harder. Will wasn’t sure if Hannibal’s state ever qualified as conscious, but he could get him to sip some boiled stream water a few times a day by rubbing his throat and murmuring encouragement. Feeding him fish was a harder task, but he managed, careful to keep Hannibal on an incline while feeding him, lest he choke.

“I can’t keep this up forever, you know,” Will would murmur to the man in his arms. “You gotta try.”

Hannibal’s reedy wheezing was the only response.

The fever seemed to spread from the wound in Hannibal’s side. With it, came chills that shook Hannibal so violently, Will worried about the stitches tearing. The doctor made little sounds as he quivered, such human signs of suffering were beneath Hannibal and they scared Will.

He ground pills, listening to the whimpering, sprinkling them into a spotted glass and holding it to Hannibal’s chapped lips. The doctor sputtered, water leaking down the corners of his mouth.

“Please,” Will whispered into Hannibal’s hair. He tilted his grip on the glass, letting Hannibal’s head rest on his left shoulder. He brought his right hand to Hannibal’s throat, petting softly. “Not like this. Not here.”

Beneath his fingers, Will could feel Hannibal beginning to swallow. He felt hope bubble up bright and fragile in his chest as the water and pill dust flowed down the doctor’s throat. “Thank you.”

* * *

Will accidentally kicked the guitar as he trudged toward the outhouse with Hannibal’s bedpan. The fever hadn’t broken yet and Will hadn’t slept the night before, hoping constant vigilance would be rewarded.

When he returned, he watched Hannibal shudder and quake beneath the stolen Walmart blankets and wondered how much longer they had. He dragged another piece of wood to the fire and picked up the guitar, moving to settle beside Hannibal on the mattress. Wincing, Will raised his right hand to the frets. His fingers were stiff and slow moving, but they eventually found the right strings.

“Let’s call this physical therapy.” Will moved so he could feel the tremors from Hannibal’s body in his hip. “Any requests?”

Will thought back to sticky nights in the Choctaw Mobile Home Park, when his father had to sell the TV to make the rent. He’d felt bad about it. He always did when things got bad, telling Will one day their ship would come in. Those nights, when there was no TV and it was too hot to sleep, Charlie Graham would pull out the old Rogue Starter he’d bought for $27 at a pawn shop and start to strum.

“Not sure how much I remember,” Will said, wincing when the first strum rang loud and discordant through the cabin. He fiddled with the strings, trying to remember how his father used to tune the old guitar. The next strum sounded closer, at least. “Guess you’re lucky you’re unconscious.”

Flexing his fingers, Will formed a G-chord. He closed his eyes, watching his father play in his mind.

G-chord, A-chord, C-E-C, G-chord, A-chord, C-E-C.

He started to hum when he found the rhythm, his right arm growing used to the stretch and his fingers forming the chords more nimbly.

_Come on, Willy, the frogs are singing, you gotta join ‘em!_

He smiled at his father’s voice, letting his eyes slip closed until he could hear the cricket frogs that surrounded the trailer and smell the peat in the wet air. “I walk for mi-les, along the highway. That’s just my way, of sa-ayin’ I love you. I’m always walkin’, after midnight, searchin’ for you.”

The tremors stopped and Will paused, letting his eyes slip open. Hannibal was breathing, shallow but steady. The doctor’s brow was still beaded with sweat, but no longer wrinkled in pain. Will smiled, shifting back to the A-chord.

“I go out walkin', after midnight, out in the moonlight, just hopin' you may be somewhere a-walkin', after midnight, searchin' for me.”

* * *

As it turned out, music did soothe the savage beast. Well, most music. Hannibal didn’t seem to like Lynyrd Skynyrd, though Will had to admit he’d botched the guitar solo in Free Bird pretty badly. But something about Patsy Cline seemed to keep Hannibal still and quiet.

They found a new routine. Will would fish in the morning, drag water in during the afternoons, and sing Hannibal the broken pieces of songs he could remember every evening. The fever had broken about a day ago, finally letting Will feel safe enough to doze wrapped around Hannibal.

The doctor started making soft little sounds in his sleep—half words from a dozen different languages. Will would snuggle closer, rubbing his nose against the base of Hannibal ear. “Quiet down, now. We got a big day in the morning.”

Hannibal would make a rumbling sound, his lungs sounding stronger by the day. It was enough to let Will finally close his eyes.

* * *

Plucking through the chords, Will was midway through the chorus of Walkin’ After Midnight when he heard the mattress groan.

Hannibal.

He let the guitar fall as he rushed for the mattress, only to stop short when he found Hannibal blinking up at him.

“Will?” The word rolled lazily on Hannibal’s unused tongue, drawing off into a lilt. Will had never heard a more beautiful sound. He lowered himself to the mattress, hands shaking as they settled on Hannibal’s chest.

“I’m here.”

“Will,” The name was stronger now, full of feeling. “This place is filthy.”

Will fell forward, laughing on Hannibal’s shoulder. Letting his hands feel the steady, quiet rise and fall of the chest beneath him. “Four Seasons was all booked.”

“I think my leg is broken,” Hannibal murmured, trying to flex the splinted limb until Will’s hands stilled him. “What happened to your cheek?”

Will looked up, he’d never seen Hannibal look uncertain before. It was unsettling. “Dolarhyde.”

Hannibal’s mouth ticked down, his eyes unfocused. Will imagined him running the halls of his mind palace, trying to find the door with the Dragon on it. “I presume we won.”

“We did,” Will’s hand moved up, stroking through Hannibal’s hair. “It was beautiful.”

Hannibal’s eyes slipped closed, his head falling heavy in Will’s hand. Though he knew the doctor likely needed more rest, Will didn’t like the idea of losing Hannibal again after he’d just returned. He tried to think of something to say. 

_You scared the shit out of me. _

_I will never let you out of my sight again._

_ I love you._

Will settled on “After we won, I threw you off the cliff.”

Hannibal’s eyes opened again, slitting in amusement. His breath came in huffs, a weak laugh as he regarded Will. “Of course you did. Did you follow?”

Will smiled then, tugging at the doctor’s hair. “Don’t I always?”

* * *

Once Hannibal was conscious, Will had trouble keeping him still. Hannibal had already fashioned himself a crutch from a broken push-broom and instructed Will on a proper physical therapy routine to increase mobility in his shoulder. 

Now Will feared leaving for the stream because he didn’t trust Hannibal to be still. He worried about finding the doctor sprawled near the outhouse, leg broken again. There were no more antibiotics and Will wasn’t sure they could withstand another infection.

When he came home to find Hannibal attempting to dust the corners of the cabin with a t-shirt wadded up on the tip of his crutch, Will knew they had to leave.

“How quickly can you get us to a place with electricity?” Will sighed, flopping a few fish onto the counter and stretching his shoulder.

“How quickly can you get me to a phone or an internet connection?”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.” Hannibal turned back to the cobweb in the corner, swiping at it precariously with his crutch.

“Sit down before you break your other leg,” Will grumbled. He grabbed at Hannibal’s back and lead him toward the mattress. “I’ll cook the fish, you stay put.”

Hannibal hummed and Will turned back to his tasks, the weight of Hannibal’s gaze settling comfortably on his shoulders.

The fish was sizzling on the cast iron pan he found when Will heard a note sound behind him. He jumped, but stilled himself before he knocked their dinner to the ground. Glancing, Will saw that Hannibal had pulled the guitar to the bed, plucking at the strings curiously.

“Do you know how to play?” Will asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“In theory, but certainly not in practice.” Hannibal strummed again. “Do you know how to play?”

Will hadn’t touched the guitar since Hannibal had opened his eyes. He had been tempted, his fingers itched for the strings, especially when Hannibal shifted and frowned in his sleep, his injuries pulling him from real rest. But wild panic flickered in his chest whenever Will considered grabbing the guitar again. He could. He could so easily strum a few notes and watch as Hannibal’s brow smoothed and his breathing evened.

But.

What would he do if Hannibal opened his eyes?

Will could picture it, Hannibal taking in the shoddy filthy cabin, listening to the hokey country lyrics, and seeing Will for what he was – a poor little hick with a drawl when he sang, and a cheap guitar. The thought made Will’s stomach turn – better to let them both dream fitfully.

“No,” Will brought the pan over and sat it on a folded blanket, handing Hannibal a fork. “Never learned.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal finally hear the same tune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a slight miscommunication over whether I could use a piece of art (it's at the bottom of the fic), and I didn't want to be the person who went about stealing art. Then, I had a seven year old come to stay with me for a week, and honestly, my house may be on fire, I'm too tired to check. So I've gotten...nothing done. But I did want to thank everyone for being kind to this 100th fic.

The house in Kourou was nothing like Hannibal and just like Hannibal. It was a mere two stories with two bedrooms, small by Lecter standards, Will was sure. The living room boasted a glass wall with a spectacular view of the ocean and a balcony in the master bedroom with a small table and chairs, perfect for late-night drinks or early morning coffee—both of which seemed like very Hannibal activities. It also featured a pool, which Will felt wholly unnecessary when the beach was 100 feet from their home, but somehow he didn’t think he’d mind being able to watch Hannibal swim laps from any place in the living room. Tropical vistas and plants from French Guiana surrounded the house, but the interior was decorated with dark woods and animal horns.

Grand and odd all at once, Will found the house to be like living inside one of Hannibal’s suits. It amused him more than it should.

He looked around the place and felt himself smile, the pain in his cheek dull as he took in a few paintings of dogs and a fluffy cotton dog bed in the corner of the room. Will would like it here.

Hannibal, on the other hand, had grimaced as Will helped him into the home.

“There’s linoleum in the kitchen,” Hannibal said with the same apprehension one usually reserved for finding a bear or asbestos in your home.

“I’ll pull it up,” Will assured. Hannibal opened his mouth, but Will was faster, adjusting the doctor who was leaning on him. “And I’ll get you a double oven while I’m at it, maybe extend the breakfast bar.”

“We’ll hire a contractor,” Hannibal reached out to tap at the counters and sneered. “Tomorrow.”

“I’ll do the work myself.” Something burned hot in Will’s chest. He didn’t want a group of people wandering around their house, fulfilling Hannibal’s vision—that was his job. “We can work on the plans in the morning.”

“Your shoulder…” Hannibal shifted, trying to take some of his weight from Will, but the empath held fast, keeping the doctor close and safe.

“I’m better now that I’m doing your exercises.” It was true, Hannibal had designed a stretching program that had reduced the tingling he sometimes felt in his fingers. Will smiled softly. “Let’s call this physical therapy.”

Hannibal stiffened in Will’s hands, blinking. Will could see the gears turning as Hannibal frowned at Will’s phrase. In the back of his mind, Will heard a slightly out of tune guitar—_G chord, A chord, C-E-C_. “W-_uh_\- what is it?”

The doctor shook his head, the smallest little shifting of his neck as Hannibal cleared away his thoughts and re-ordered his mind. “Nothing. I must be heavy for you to support. Please, deposit me in the chair by the lanai.”

Will nodded, the phantom tune following them as they limped deeper into their new home.

* * *

Will had installed the double oven, fitted the gas stove, and moved on to the stainless-steel countertops when the delivery truck pulled into their home.

Hannibal was swimming laps, which Will only allowed because he could see the doctor in the pool from his work station. Will still feared the moment he’d see Hannibal slip beneath the water and never emerge, but each day seemed to ease that terror as he watched Hannibal build back the strength in his right side. Each day, Hannibal added a lap or two, he was up to thirty now, going under for longer and coming out of the pool with less struggle each time.

Will’s shoulder was also improving. It would probably improve faster if he focused on his physical therapy and allowed the doctor to call in workmen to help him move appliances and rebuild the breakfast bar. But Will liked the work. He liked the familiar ache in his body from a day’s hard labor. He liked recreating the sketch Hannibal made for him, watching it come to life before his eyes. Mostly, he loved the small curve that formed at the corner of Hannibal’s mouth when he surveyed Will’s work and the soft little declarations that Will and the kitchen had _surpassed his expectations_ yet again.

“Is this the fridge?” Will called out the open lanai door as he signed for the package. The writing on the side of the box was in Italian, but who knew where Hannibal had decided to source his damn fridge.

Will heard a litany of splashing as Hannibal climbed out of the pool. The doctor still wore a brace on his right leg, and the healing limb made the man’s gait stiff and ungraceful. Will found it rather endearing.

“Bring that to the far corner please!” Hannibal toweled himself off in the doorway, indicating a small area where Will had a lure table. Hannibal had marked off a corner for himself, where the light was best in the mornings.

Will snorted, directing the delivery men to the corner. “This seems kinda big for a desk.”

“It’s the appropriate size, I assure you.”

The men pried open the box and Will watched as a delicate carved wooden instrument was removed. A harpsichord, with cherry and maple inlays nearly glowed in the light as the delivery men worked to free it from the protective packing. One of the men pulled a brush from his jumpsuit and began the business of delicately sweeping the packing material from the wooden carvings. Will felt himself smile. “I thought you wanted a desk.”

“I said I wanted a place to compose, you assumed I meant a desk.”

“You gonna play for me while I work?”

“I’ll change while you decide on what you’d like to hear,” Hannibal hobbled past the workers toward his bedroom, stopping only to tell them he’d tune the instrument himself.

* * *

The first time it happened, Will nearly lost a finger. Hannibal had smiled from his sheet music as Will brought over his coffee. “I’m not going to disturb you, am I?”

“Never.” Hannibal sipped at the steaming mug, but Will felt his cheeks heat.

“OK, well, I can always move the miter saw outside if it—”

“When I was in Alana’s…_care_ I would compose in my head while she had something the orderly called EDM blasted into my cell. I assure you a saw couldn’t be worse.”

Will nodded and went back to his piles of wood. He was about to press the blade into a beam when he heard it.

_ G-chord, A-chord, C-E-C._

He barely moved his hand in time. Will glanced up to see Hannibal glaring at the keys of the harpsichord. Mouth drawing tight, Hannibal plucked out the notes again, this time closer to the proper rhythm. Will felt like he was going to puke.

The doctor turned his head, adding flourishes to the chord, playing with meter and octave, but it was always there, just beneath Hannibal’s puffery.

_ G-chord, A-chord, C-E-C._

Will walked out of the kitchen and onto the lanai. It wasn’t far enough; he could still hear the notes. So, he walked out further. He walked until salt water lapped at his shoes and he heard Hannibal calling for him. He could hear the soft limping _shush_ of the doctor’s hurried steps in the sand.

“Will? Did you hurt yourself?” Hands formed to Will’s jaw, thumbs stroking down to his pulse. “You’re pale. Are you well?”

“Just needed a breath.”

“Had you gone any further for that breath I would have had to alert the Coast Guard.”

Will looked down at the ocean lapping around his shins, lapping around Hannibal’s shins. “Your pants. We should—”

“Never mind the pants. Where were you going?”

_Wherever it was, I’d always come back to find you_. Will frowned and shook his head. “I…I don’t think I know.”

“Come back to the house,” Hannibal glanced down before pulling at Will’s arm. “Wipe off your feet and change your clothes. I’ll play for you while you rest.”

“I was almost finished—” Will waved to the kitchen.

“I believe we’ll survive another night of soup and sandwiches. Perhaps we can even order from that pizzeria you keep mentioning.” Will resisted Hannibal’s pull back to the house. The doctor raised a brow before letting his weight rest on his right leg, causing him to pitch backwards as the limb buckled. Will caught him before Hannibal could hit the ground, immediately pulling the doctor’s weight onto his left side and helping him back to the house.

“Can I pick what you play?”

“Within reason.” Hannibal was bearing his own weight perfectly well on his left leg, but Will kept a tight grip on the arm wrapped around his shoulders. “I’ve been working on a new composition, a tune that seems to haunt my mind palace—”

“Chopin.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Could you play Chopin?” Will could feel Hannibal’s gaze on him, but kept his face as neutral as possible. They continued to the house in silence, Will dropping Hannibal in his room to change before continuing to his own. He heard himself humming while he changed his pants.

* * *

Hannibal didn’t let the tune go. Will began to dread seeing him limp to the harpsichord every morning. Will had heard baroque, minimalist, romantic, and renaissance versions of Walkin’ After Midnight at this point. He heard it in his sleep. He heard it while Hannibal chopped herbs on his new countertops, humming softly to himself.

Will had always thought the faces of those you killed would haunt you. He was wrong. It was Patsy Fucking Cline.

The worst part was the frustration Will could feel coming from Hannibal. His memory was still spotty. Will had told him in detail what had happened with Dolarhyde, and how glorious their victory had been. Hannibal would listen with rapt attention, but as soon as Will stopped speaking, the doctor’s eyes would turn stormy. Will watched as Hannibal scanned his mind palace, searching empty rooms trying to conjure images that should have been there.

Will told him about the cabin, about the fever, but left his fear and the guitar from the story. Hannibal would listen, his brain trying to piece together what Will told him with any snippets he could recall. It seemed Hannibal always drew a blank, except for that damn song.

The harpsichord would sing to Will every day, pleading with him to give Hannibal this one piece of his memory back. Will knew it was cruel to deny him, but now he felt even more foolish. The only thing worse than admitting his simple fondness for Hannibal seemed to be admitting he’d allowed Hannibal to twist in the wind of a memory, never finding solid ground.

Hannibal Lecter may have enjoyed letting Will’s brain burn for fun, but the empath had to admit he didn’t have the stomach for it.

Will broke two weeks later when he came back from a walk along the beach to find Hannibal emphatically hitting the notes, over and over again. They had lost all rhythm, just a drone of five tones over and over as the doctor glowered. His coffee and scramble were untouched on the counter, gone cold listening to Hannibal play.

“I know it.” Will could hear the tremor in his voice.

Hannibal looked up, sighing. His forehead was creased and eyes tight at the corners. “You know what?”

“It’s Patsy Cline, the _uh_ the song.” Will ducked his head, scuffing his sandy shoes on the mat before committing to entering the living room.

“Patsy…” Hannibal frowned. “Why on earth would I be thinking about a Patsy Cline song?”

Hannibal’s eyes darted to the right, Will had come to know that look. Hannibal was scrolling through some sort of cannibal database in his brain. “That’s not Crazy, the notes are different.”

“It’s not Crazy,” Will murmured. He could feel his pulse in his throat, he wondered if Hannibal could hear it. “It’s Walkin’ After Midnight.”

Something shifted in Hannibal’s expression, his mouth parting softly on a breath. “Walking After Midnight…out in the moonlight, just hopin' you may be...”

Will jerked his head into a nod. “That’s the one. Maybe you can get it out of your head now.”

Will moved to the kitchen, cleaning up Hannibal’s abandoned breakfast. Any task to keep his back to the doctor.

“It’s a man’s voice.”

Will’s hands froze under the tap. “What?”

“When I hear the song, it’s a man singing it.”

Will took a breath, then another, there was a soft wheeze in his chest. He could smell the fever and the dust in the abandoned cabin. “You were so sick. You wouldn’t stop shaking with the fever. I— I thought you were going to leave me, that I wouldn’t be able to find you when I followed.”

Will waited, shoulders hunched for Hannibal’s pronouncement. When none came, he turned.

Hannibal sat on the bench, staring at Will. Tears were flooding down his cheeks.

Will broke, abandoning the running sink and the coffee mug to rush to Hannibal’s side, soapy hands wiping the tears away from the doctor’s cheeks before he could think better of the action. Hannibal looked at Will, eyes shining in the morning light.

“I thought I had dreamed it. I thought— I’d hoped for so long and you never seemed to—” Hannibal shook his head. “I dismissed it as a hallucination.”

Will’s voice was gruff and soft. “I was afraid you’d think it was…I don’t know, country music on an out of tune guitar, it’s hardly a serenade you’d want.”

“It would be if you were singing it.”

Will could feel his cheeks heat, but fought the urge to look away from Hannibal. “It’s…it’s beneath you.”

“You’ve never been beneath me, Will,” Hannibal whispered. “You’ve always been my true equal. The only person who could ever see…The only person I’ve ever _wanted_ to see m—”

Will closed the distance between them and kissed the words from Hannibal’s lips. It wasn’t an ideal kiss. The scent of lemon verbena dish soap was sharp in the air. Bubbles popped between their chins when they finally connected. Yet, they managed to find each other through the distractions. They always did. Will licked along Hannibal’s upper lip, tasting his tears but also tracing the smile that the doctor couldn’t seem to staunch. Hannibal’s hands sank into Will’s hair and the angle changed slightly. Suddenly their mouths melded perfectly and Will could barely smell dish soap over the overwhelming scent of Hannibal’s skin. He couldn’t help the smile when he pulled back. “I could be.”

Hannibal leaned into Will’s hands, giving his head over to them. “Could be?”

“Beneath you.” Will raised an eyebrow, but couldn’t keep a straight face.

Hannibal huffed a small laugh, his face still cradled in Will’s hands as trails of suds dripped from his chin. “Could you?”

“Yeah,” Will breathed before taking Hannibal’s mouth again.

* * *

Will remembered to turn off the faucet before dragging Hannibal to the bedroom.

They managed to hobble up to Hannibal’s bed on three legs. They stopped kissing when one particularly passionate embrace nearly sent Hannibal careening down the stairs. Will had only managed to right them by throwing himself into a wall to counterbalance Hannibal’s weight. The resulting thud and damage to the plaster work was enough to shake Will out of his teenaged eagerness to shove his tongue down Hannibal’s throat, but it hadn’t done much to hamper the man before him. When the doctor leaned in again, Will held up a hand.

“We get on a bed, first,” He said sternly, trying not to smile when Hannibal made an offended noise. “Tell it walkin’, old man. Your complaints are cutting into my kissing time. We could have been on the bed by now.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed, but his mouth also shut. They limped along to the bed in companionable silence. And if the hand that was supporting Hannibal’s back slipped a little lower to palm the doctor’s surprisingly round ass, well, Will didn’t hear any complaints.

They made it to the bed without any further life-threatening situations. Flopping on the mattress together, Hannibal was over Will in the blink of an eye. That impossibly warm seeking mouth found Will and suddenly little considerations like breath and blood flow didn’t bother him.

Pulling up the fine linen of Hannibal’s shirt, Will finally found warm skin. He raked his nails over it, kneaded the soft flesh of Hannibal’s stomach in between his fingers. He wanted to split the man open, mold him and unmold him. Hannibal leaned heavily on his left arm, his right lightly stroking Will’s thigh. It was maddening, sensation shooting up his leg but never reaching where he needed it. Will’s world had narrowed to one fine point. He only existed where Hannibal’s hands stroked and where his lips touched, nothing else mattered.

Well, something mattered.

Will pulled back, narrowing his eyes when he looked at Hannibal. “Your leg.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Hannibal shifted, taking the pressure off his right leg, but Will caught his chin before he could be distracted by that damn mouth again.

“The hell it doesn’t, you just made it to forty laps.”

Hannibal blinked, head resting heavy in Will’s palm. “You’ve been counting.”

He was laying in bed, hard as a rock with his hand under Hannibal’s shirt, but for some reason, Will blushed. “No…I just…”

Will shoved at Hannibal’s shoulder, forcing him to sprawl prone on the bed beneath him. “Ah I see, you only happened to count forty laps today?”

“Alright I have. And I time how fast it takes you to get up the stairs too.” Standing, Will tugged his t-shirt off and threw it at Hannibal as he yanked down his jeans. Naked and somewhat less angry, Will sat on the edge of the bed. He smiled when an elegant hand ran along his spine. Turning, Will caught the hand and kissed the fingers. “You’re improving there as well. Nearly cut your time in half, but you still favor your left—you happy?”

Hannibal bared his teeth in a wide lopsided smile. “I am, yes.”

“Well, _uh_, me too.” Will muttered, lowering himself onto Hannibal’s chest and pressing a few kisses to the doctor’s neck as he unfastened the buttons.

“Am I to lie still lest I interfere with the healing process?” Hannibal’s eyes were on Will, crinkled in the corners as the watched the empath undress him.

Will raised an eyebrow, moving his hands to Hannibal’s belt. “No, you can lift your hips.”

Hannibal obeyed, lips coiled into a smug little smile as he watched Will carefully shimmy his underwear and pants off his leg. Will paused, kissing the long scar along Hannibal’s thigh where his femur had slit the skin. Hannibal made a low satisfied noise at the gesture. “Sentimentalist.”

“Not sentimental, proud,” Will kissed the scar again before removing Hannibal’s shoes, and sliding the clothing off his feet. He leaned back down to mouth at the scar again. “I gave you this.”

Hannibal hummed, turning his wrists toward Will. “And these.”

“By proxy.”

“We did many things by proxy then.”

Will thought of Alana, before shaking his head. “No more proxies.”

“None?”

“Just you and me now.” Will prowled up Hannibal’s body, letting his lips trail along warm flesh. “You want to stab me or fuck me, you do it yourself.”

“Agreed.”

Will grinned, nipping at a swell of flesh just over Hannibal’s hip. “Glad that’s settled.”

Worrying the mouthful of flesh between his teeth again, Will bit harder to draw a soft pleased noise from Hannibal. The doctor’s cock twitched when Will clamped down, laying heavy on his thigh as it filled. Will released Hannibal only to bite at the tender valley between hip and groin, grinning when Hannibal’s cock thickened further.

“The lubricant-”

“Won’t be necessary until after your leg is healed.” Will took Hannibal’s cock in his hand and stroked it gently, more of a tease than anything else. Hannibal’s breath deepened, watching intently as Will drew his fingers lightly over the heated skin. “Think you can handle the disappointment?”

Hannibal’s eyes looked fevered as he followed Will’s movements. Will shifted slightly and settled between Hannibal’s parted legs. He smiled up at the doctor before dipping his head and sucking soft kisses onto the tip of Hannibal’s cock. He pulled gently at Hannibal’s foreskin with his lips, teasing little kisses and licks just to watch Hannibal shiver beneath him.

Twirling his tongue around the head of Hannibal’s cock, Will finally rolled the doctor’s foreskin down and lapped at the head. Hannibal made a small broken noise, his stomach sinking and his hands clenching in the sheets. Will took more of Hannibal into his mouth, sucking hard and rubbing his tongue along the underside of Hannibal’s cock.

A hand landed heavily on Will’s head, fingers threading into the curls and gripping hard. Hannibal didn’t try to guide Will’s movements, only seemed to latch on to the man between his legs in desperate hope of keeping him there forever. “Will, Wi-”

Will bobbed his head down, letting Hannibal hit the back of his throat before he pulled off with a pop. Hannibal was panting, stomach heaving. “Yes?”

“Together.” Hannibal rasped, tugging at Will’s hair. “I want us to-together.”

“And you called me a sentimentalist?” Will bent his head and took Hannibal in his mouth again, laving the ruddy cock with his tongue. When he pulled off this time, Will crawled up Hannibal’s body, fitting them together. Rolling his hips, Will groaned at the wet slide of their cocks. Propping himself on his forearms, Will began to rut, slow pulls of his hips to draw every bit of slick friction he could from their bodies.

Hannibal’s hands fell to Will’s hips, pulling the empath tighter and harder with every thrust. Will lowered his head to bite softly at Hannibal’s shoulder.

“When your leg heals, I’m going to keep you in this bed for days,” he whispered, licking at the red marks he was leaving on Hannibal’s tan skin. “I’m going to open you so slow and sweet, you’ll be begging for it, darling. Fucking yourself on my fingers and pleading for more.”

Hannibal’s breathing grew reedy. He was arching into each thrust, nails biting into Will’s ass as they rolled their hips together.

“And when you’re sure you’re gonna die, that you can’t take another second of it? I’m going to fill you so fucking well, Hannibal.” Will scraped his teeth along Hannibal’s collarbone. “I’ll get so far inside you’ll never feel whole again without me.”

“Will-”

“I know darlin, I know.” Will shifted, sinking his hand into the shorter hair at the base of Hannibal’s skull and pulling the doctor in for a kiss. “Come for me. Spurt all over that fuzzy stomach of yours.”

“Will, I-” Will could feel the tension stiffening Hannibal’s body, the resistance as he fought off the orgasm.

“Fall, love,” Will gritted, thrusting harder and baring his teeth. He looked into Hannibal’s beautiful red eyes, almost black in the darkness of the bedroom. “I’ll always follow you if you fall.”

Hannibal’s mouth went slack, his body spasming as he let go. Will watched his doctor come, the small little shifts in his face that belied just how overwhelmed he was in the moment. Will followed moments later, biting into Hannibal’s shoulder as his world stuttered to a stop.

When they could move again, Will rolled to the side, gasping up at the ceiling. Hannibal sat up gingerly, peeling off his shirt and using it to wipe them both off. Will was surprised Hannibal would be so rude to a piece of fine linen, but evidently, he wasn’t keen on the idea of either of them leaving the bed. Wrapping a firm arm around Will’s torso, Hannibal secured the empath to his side.

Will began to doze, but something in the back of his mind bothered him, kept him from falling from conscious thought. Hannibal’s grip on Will was just as tight as it had been five minutes ago. Will glanced over to see the doctor intently watching him, fingers nearly white as they held his prize.

“For a man who just came all over himself, you seem kinda tense.”

“I’m quite content, I assure you.”

Will shifted, huffing with a little amusement when his movements made Hannibal tighten his grip slightly. Finally extracting his hand, Will began to stroke Hannibal’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere. You know that.”

Hannibal didn’t respond, which broke Will’s heart just a bit. Changing the rhythm of his hand sliding through Hannibal’s locks, Will began to hum. The tune was familiar to them both now, and Will could feel Hannibal’s muscles finally losing a bit of tension. He went through the song three times, until Hannibal finally drifted, slack face pressed to Will’s heart.

* * *

In three weeks, Will had gotten used to Hannibal being the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes. The sight of the rumpled doctor with terrible breath and worse hair had quickly become one of his favorite things. Hannibal looking human felt illicit, a rare thing that few had ever been allowed to see.

So, when Will opened his eyes and found gleaming wood instead of ruffled grey hair, he was disappointed. He blinked, forcing himself to focus on the object occupying Hannibal’s pillow and smiled.

The acoustic guitar was finer than the Rogue Starter had ever been. The wood gleamed with cherry and maple inlays that created a beautiful geometric pattern along the edges. The strings, Will was certain, were catgut, and he wondered how long it would be before he would serenade Hannibal on strings made from one of their kills.

Grabbing the guitar, he strummed a few notes, smiling at the crisp sound that rung from it.

He found Hannibal out on the bedroom’s balcony, sipping coffee and sketching a Paradise Jacamar as it investigated the crucifix orchids on the balustrade. A cup lay next to Hannibal’s, still steaming and waiting for Will. The empath flopped into the chair beside Hannibal, scaring off the bird, but gaining Hannibal’s attention.

Will held up the guitar. “I’ll play you to sleep, but we’re not forming a fucking band, OK?”

“I’ll call the local café and cancel the show, then.” Hannibal smiled, setting his charcoal down to take another pull of his coffee. He sighed. “I’m afraid the t-shirts are already printed.”

Will brought the guitar to his lap, plucking out a few chords before he shrugged. “Bet we could sell them to Freddie Lounds and make millions.”

“I see you’re warming to the idea of a band. Shall I book some studio time?”

Will flexed his fingers, a new song coming to mind. He tried to remember how his father formed the chords.

_C-chord, G-chord, A-minor, C-chord, G-chord._

Hannibal watched Will, head tilted. “Is this Patsy Cline?”

“Nope.” _C-chord, E-minor, A-minor, F-C-G_ “It’s Elvis. Gotta expand the repertoire if we’re gonna go on tour.”

Hannibal nodded. “I shall find you a white jumpsuit the next time we’re in town.”

Will snorted, but kept playing. Hannibal relaxed in his chair as the notes progressed, seemingly lulled into silence. Will got most of the way through the song before he started singing, the words seeming to brim from him. “Like the river flows, surely to the sea. Darlin’ so it goes, some things…are meant to be. Take my hand, take my whole life too. For I… can’t… help falling—what are you doing?”

Hannibal looked up from his pad, hand still moving.

“Just a quick sketch,” he explained with a smile. “For the concert poster.”

**THE END**

_In case anyone wanted to see the sketch Hanners was drawing, I took my inspiration from this absolutely GORGEOUS piece of art from [nephila_clavipes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nephila_clavipes/pseuds/nephila_clavipes/works). It's better than the fic, I know, so please go visit their page and show them the awe they deserve. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank Ish for the original inspiration with her amazing YarnWill with Guitar. And then for pointing out that nephila_clavipes basically drew the perfect art for this fic (that I then shamelessly drooled over and used as further inspiration). 
> 
> So...that's my 100th fic. 
> 
> I'm still working on my Spacedogs fic and I have a question: Would you rather me post that stuff (I'm about 9 chapters in, so you have plenty of content)...or send me prompts that I can quick write while I battle through the Spacedogs fic? If it's the latter, y'all have to send me prompts, though!

**Author's Note:**

> **Next Up:** Hannibal and Will start their new life. But will an old tune still haunt them both?


End file.
